


Soft Like Foam

by kikitheslayer



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikitheslayer/pseuds/kikitheslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory makes excellent coffee, understands Paris' literary allusions, and is completely unobtainable. Paris might be in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Like Foam

Paris Geller was a well-read woman. Novels, short stories, that sort of thing. Some of this reading had even come in the form of independently-published, not-for-profit original fiction by up-and-coming authors set in previously established fictional universes.

That sounded about right.

Over the course of her research, Paris had often come across the idea that if you were a lesbian, and you frequented a coffee shop, and that coffee shop had a beautiful barista, something was supposed to happen. She was supposed to write her phone number on your cup. She was supposed to let you in after closing, when it was just the two of you and the perfectly dim cafe lighting.

The internet, as she had always suspected, was full of morons.

\--

Let it never be said that Paris that did not try. Paris always tried. She was what the kids called a “try hard.” (Although she could write a term paper on how the term was used mainly by procrastinators to justify the total lack of forward momentum in their life and to shame her for hers.) (She had, in fact, written that term paper.)

Paris had tried her best, day-appropriate, non-objectifying pick-up lines. She had tried leaving behind impressive books “on accident.” She had tried compliments, and jokes, and basically, her pursuit of Rory Gilmore had lead to her personal record in “months I have patronized one coffee shop without being kicked out.”

She didn’t even have her picture on the wall.

What a waste.

\--

Finally, Paris had to admit that her crush was hopeless. On top of everything, the missed signals, the wasted smiles, as if to rub salt in the wound, the unthinkable happened: Rory took the morning shift. It was like she was trying to spite Paris.

Well, Gilmore, two could play at that game. Paris had an eight am class, a bad hair day, and she was done trying to win Rory over.

She blew into the cafe like a hurricane, a mess of hair, Winter clothes, and half-finished papers. She glowered at the floor, but clearly not out of shyness. She had no interest in blending in. She stomped through the small shop, pushed past the tables, muttering her obscenities just loud enough to be heard while still fitting the description of “under her breath.”

She stood in line with her arms crossed. To add insult to injury, just when she thought she had reached the counter, the woman in front of her decided that she couldn’t make due with the store’s new price plan. And of course, instead of leaving, this was a fact that she had to loudly share with the whole vicinity. Mainly, of course, this meant Rory, who was struggling to placate her.

Paris heaved a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. She leaned forward and around the irate woman, tapping her on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said, “Soccer mom. While I’m sure these extra 70 cents do really cramp your style, why don’t you leave the line to those of us actually interested in utilizing the service it provides, say, by buying coffee?" She took a breath. "What was that? You don’t know what services are? Well, I’m glad you asked. The exchanging of money for goods and services is the foundation upon which capitalism is built. To put it simply, it’s what happened when you bought your son Nike knee socks and yourself that blonde dye job. It’s what I imagine is the main platform of whichever politician has their name on the bumper sticker on the back of your mini van. Understand?”

The woman’s eyebrows had jumped off her head. She looked back and forth between Paris and Rory, who was smiling and shrugging. Finally, in a huff, she grabbed her purse and change and stomped off.

“Finally,” Paris muttered, stepping up to the counter.

“You know,” said Rory, “the rest of her complaint might have been shorter than that speech.”

“But far less educational, don’t you think?”

Rory smiled. “You’ve got me there.”

Paris ordered. When Rory passed her her coffee, their fingers brushed, and Paris’ heart skipped a beat. She swore in her head and tossed Rory one last minute, frantic smile.

During her class, Paris took a sip of her coffee. She looked down and her eyes caught something on the back of her cup. She turned it around, and there, in black sharpie and neat handwriting, followed by a heart, was Rory’s number.

 _Score one for the internet_ , she thought, smiling at the table.


End file.
